The right to sing the blues

XXII

God, you're pissing blood."

Sandra Reckoner, shy thing that she was, had stayed after helping Nudger into the bathroom. She stood now near the door, nude and unafraid of what the harsh morning light might reveal about her long body. She had no reason to be afraid; the few stretch marks and the slightly pendulous angle of her breasts somehow seemed only to add to her attractiveness by making her real and sensuous in a way no mere centerfold candidate could approach.

"It's from being punched in the kidneys," Nudger told her, leaning with one hand flat against the wall.

"Don't you think you should see a doctor?"

"No." He pushed away from the wall and turned toward the washbasin.

"Why not?"

"Doctors are like mechanics and a number of other people who charge too much for their services. If you go to them, they'll find all sorts of things wrong."

"That's a stupid attitude."

"It probably is at my age; there could really be all sorts of things wrong with me."

"Doesn't it frighten you, seeing blood in your urine"

"Sure. But it scared me worse the first time, after I'd been kicked in the kidneys a few years ago. But I know now it will eventually take care of itself; the people who did this to me knew just how far to go." He washed his hands, splashed cold water over his face.

"You sound as if you admire their professionalism," Sandra said.

"I don't admire it," Nudger told her, "but I'm counting on it instead of my medical insurance." Insurance which, it occurred to him, might have lapsed. Had he paid that last premium? That was something he'd better remember to check on.

"Do you know who beat you up? And why?"

"Yes and yes," Nudger said. "It was two very large primeval types who were underlining a message they'd delivered to me earlier."

"There's such a thing as the police, you know," Sandra said. "Have you called them?"

"No."

"You should. You were assaulted. I understand there's a city ordinance against beating up out-of-towners. And maybe you could use police protection."

"I'm not so sure, in this instance."

Sandra looked at him curiously. "You weren't in any shape to talk about it last night," she said. "Would it help you to talk about it now?"

"No," Nudger told her, "I don't even want to think about it."

She knew when not to pursue a subject. She stepped around him, bent over and turned on the taps in the bathtub, then pulled the chrome lever that got the shower going. "Wait for the water to get warm," she said. "I'll be right back." She sidestepped around his listing form again and left the bathroom.

Nudger stood remembering his night with her. She had comforted him, held his head close between her bare breasts, as he drifted in and out of sleep, in and out of pain. Several times she had suggested calling the hotel doctor; each time Nudge had refused. In the coolness of the air-conditioned room, it was the heat of her long body that he wanted, the warmth of her limitless compassion. Sex, of course, had been out of the question; Nudger was having enough difficulty simply breathing. But she had stayed with him and given him what at that moment he so badly needed.

Nudger smiled briefly. He had kept his pledge of fidelity to Claudia. He felt rather smug about that.

Sandra returned to the bathroom, wearing her panties and bra. She reached in behind the plastic shower curtain to test the temperature of the hissing water.

"Are you ready for this?" she asked.

Nudger nodded.

She helped him step over the edge of the bathtub; he looked down as he did this and saw that his body showed only a few faintly purple bruises and was almost unmarked by one of the worst beatings he'd ever endured.

"Can you stand up by yourself all right in there?" Sandra asked over the rush of water.

"I can stand and move around okay," Nudger told her. "It just hurts when I do." The needles of hot water seemed to penetrate his flesh and soothe his stiffened and abused muscles. He looked over at Sandra, smiled at the concern on her bony features. "I'm on the mend," he assured her.

She nodded, looking no less concerned. "Sure," she said, and pulled the shower curtain closed. He didn't hear her leave, but registered the sharp click of the latch as she shut the bathroom door.

Nudger turned his body slowly to let the water work on his back, then turned again and raised his face into the powerful spray. He stood that way for several minutes, lost in the cascade of hot water. Finally he moved back a step so the spray struck his chest. Steam began to rise. He really could feel his body loosening up, his strength returning.

He stayed in the shower a long time, running up the Hotel Majestueux's water bill. Then he gingerly toweled dry, used his fingers to brush his hair back, and wiped away condensation on the fogged mirror so he could look at himself.

Same old Nudger, but maybe a few years older than he'd been last night.

He walked stiffly out of the bathroom to locate some clothes. Each step made him ache, but less than he'd anticipated, and the pain at the base of his spine was almost gone.

He felt like lying back down, but he knew that if he did his body would stiffen up again and he'd undo much of the good of the hot shower. With the slow deliberation of a man in a dream, he began getting dressed.

Twisting back his arms to get his shirt on was painful, as was crouching braced against the wall to step into his pants. But the shoes and socks were the worst. Bending his body to reach his feet was a rare agony. He managed to get one shoe tied in a bow, then fastened the other one with a crude knot, sat up straight, and said the hell with it.

The effort of getting dressed took more out of him than he'd thought it would. It also made him realize he was hungry. Should he phone down for a motorized wheelchair with chrome hubcaps, or just call Room Service?

He decided on Room Service and ordered a two-egg cheese omelet, toast, orange juice, and a pot of coffee. Then he unlocked the door, slumped in the blue armchair, and for the first time looked at his wristwatch. He was surprised to see that it was almost eleven o'clock. Sandra Reckoner had given him her morning as well as her night, without much in return.

Nudger realized that either the maid was late this morning or she'd found his door locked with the nightlatch and would make up his room on her late rounds. It occurred to him that she might come in at the same time as the bellhop from Room Service and bustle over to the wastebasket and empty it. That could cause minor complications; Nudger decided he'd better remove the stack of Ineida's love letters from the wastebasket where they were concealed inside the wadded napkin.

He stood up and creaked over to the desk, placing his left palm on it to support himself while he leaned over the wastebasket and felt beneath crumpled papers to find the napkin.

As soon as he touched the napkin he knew something was wrong; it was lying flat, not the way he'd carefully arranged it to conceal the letters.

Blood was rushing to his head, making him dizzy, so he straightened, lifting the metal waste-basket as he did so and setting it on the desk. He stuck his hand in the wastebasket and probed around; still no letters. To be sure, he dumped the contents onto the desk.

The letters were gone.

"Damn her!" he said softly, but with enough vehemence to make his sides ache from the effort of abruptly expelled air.

At the knock on the door, he scooped the trash back into the wastebasket and set it on the floor. Then he hobbled over to the door and opened it, expecting to say hello to his breakfast.

But it wasn't Room Service at the door.

It was Ineida Mann.